5 Winchester Christmases
by SynchronisedPerfection
Summary: Well, the title says it all. Not my best writing I think I'll upload an edited version as soon as school stops loading work on me.


**5 WINCHESTER CHRISTMASES **

December 25th, 1983

A sleek black Chevrolet Impala '67 was a blatant anomaly against the snow covered highway. It sped down the road, as fast as the snow permitted; leaving dark tire trails that were quickly covered by soft powdery snow.

A baby slept silently in another boy's arms, pawing at his arms in dreams of flame and snow. He snuggled closer to the warmth of his older brother, yawning. "Shush Sammy, sleep tight." Dean whispered into the bundle lying in his slowly numbing arms, his finger held tight in the tiny grasp of a 2 year old. Outside, the roads were deserted, trees hidden under snow, animals hiding from the cold, and families - Families at home, in warm homes with Christmas dinners and trees and presents and crackers.

Dean rationalized his situation as best as he could. Everybody else was celebrating Christmas, but they weren't. He knew why Daddy was driving so far away, he knew why they weren't at Grandma's for Christmas.

They'd left Lawrence a few days ago, with barely anything from their old house but clothes and diapers for Sammy. Dean had carried Sam in his arms and into the car, as John Winchester took a last fleeting look at the house, the burnt walls a stark reminder of an incomplete family, and years of joy and love lost to flames that ravaged still.

"Dad? Are we there yet?" A tiny voice broke the cold silence of the car. Dean shifted carefully in his seat, and put one hand on the window, feeling the cold from the outside. "It's a white Christmas."

John Winchester looked straight ahead at the snow covered road. "We aren't there yet, Deano. Just sleep tight, okay?"

He didn't know where 'there' was either. He'd been driving through towns, past Christmas decorations that shone so bright, past departmental stores with huge Christmas trees and celebrations at the ice rink. He saw the smiling faces; he could feel the emotions running high, fueled by family reunions and winter break. Mothers watched, all smiles, as their children tumbled and wrestled playfully in the snow. The holiday kitsch stabbed at him, nagged at him like a constant reminder of what he didn't have, what his boys couldn't have, and how life went on everywhere else, even though it grinded to a halt for him.

"Are we going to get mommy now? So she can join us, and celebrate Christmas together? You said Mommy went somewhere, and she was watching over us, so can she come and watch us celebrate Christmas? Will she make turkey and pudding like she did last year?" Dean probed from the backseat, his eyes shining with the prospect of being able to see his mom again.

Fingers clenched tightly over the steering wheel, and John blinked back tears.

"Daddy? Sammy misses mommy too, he can't talk yet but you should tell her that we all want her back for Christmas."

The car stopped.

"No Christmas this year okay, Dean? Mommy won't be back for a long time." His voice faltered as he lied to his eldest son. _Mommy won't be back. Ever._

Dean nodded in resignation.

For the first time since the night of 23rd November, John cried in front of his sons.

And Dean knew that he would never see his mom again.

2. December 25th. 1996.

John burst through the motel door, a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. Dean tore himself away from a rerun of It's a Wonderful World and dragged Sammy, sprawled across the bed into a seated position, scattering notes and textbooks.

"Up. Now. Werewolf."

It just happened that the Lunar cycle was screwed up enough for the full moon to occur, _at Christmas_.

Both boys ran out of the motel into the car, where they sped into the forest and hunted an entire family of werewolves who had been attacking and killing innocent citizens of the town. Dean growled something under his breath and John responded gruffly, pointing at Sam. Dean pushed Sam out of the car and followed close after, indicating the shadow of a wolf in the distance.

Silver bullets were delivered straight into the hearts of three werewolves, an entire family by the look of it - one boy not much younger than Sam, another older boy and a father. Werewolf or not, they had just slaughtered three people who were human, just like them. Sam stared wordlessly at the three slaughtered corpses, his fingers numb on the barrel of his sawn-off. He felt an arm around his shoulder, and looked up to see Dean with blood smeared across his shirt and a wry smile on his face.

"Merry frickin' Christmas Sammy."

Sam pulled away, trembling.

_(A whole family, just like them – and they'd wasted them without a second thought.)_

Christmas came and went.

December 25th

The worst thing about hospitals was the waiting. Hours spent lounging around in sanitized plastic seats, breathing in the cool, germ-free air coughed out of vents, mingling freely with random bacteria from old ladies and young children with unfortunate afflictions who coughed and glowered when Dean didn't offer up his seat .

Well at least when they made you wait, you knew it wasn't serious. If they made you wait the doctors knew you could survive a mind-numbingly slow wait. When they pushed you in shouting for assistance and spewing out medical jargon that made no sense to you, and registered as merely an annoying buzz in your ears – You were screwed.

Sam was screwed.

They rushed him into the critical care room surging past nosy onlookers and concerned families, inserting needles, placing pressure on bloody wounds – a gory souvenir from their latest hunt.

John and Dean Winchester limped unceremoniously through people with broken arms, fevers and the sniffles, growling menacingly at anybody in the way.

Dean ripped out the string of Christmas lights hanging limply at the registry, following closely after his father, concern and fury warring for first place on his grimy face.

_(It wasn't Christmas without Sam.)_

December 25th, 2007.

Dean didn't know what to expect when he stepped into the motel room. He half wished that Sammy would've secretly set up a Christmas tree or something in the middle of the room and they'd have a happy little (last) Christmas celebration and have thousands of chick flick moments that would kill every last bit of testosterone within him.

But yet he knew that sometimes Sammy (the scrooge) could be really, really stubborn and asshole-ish about stuff like these.

Yeah, well.

So maybe the eggnog was more alcohol than eggnog, and they both got really random presents but Sam tried, and though a motel Christmas wasn't the best Christmas that one might expect, it was Dean's last, and in his heart, it would always be the best one.

Sitting in a room filled with limply strung kitschy Christmas decorations and clutching his Mars bar and high octane fuel, Dean felt at home, and he knew Sam felt it too.

December 25th, 2008

Christmas? What Christmas?

The man who was once Sammy Winchester stood at the edge of a snow coloured grave, unkempt hair covering his eyes as he looked down at the name emblazoned across the granite headstone.

He bent slowly and gently placed a single white rose by the headstone.

Pushing the hair away from his face, he stood up, whispering.

"Next year, Dean. We'll have Christmas next year."

Sam Winchester's eyes were red. And it wasn't from crying.

_(And he will rise in a blaze of hellfire. He will rise)_


End file.
